thaddeus o’neil ili jedan poprilično oslobođen čovek

da budem iskrena za njega sam prvi put čula na sajtu style like u. ali, bilo je sasvim dovoljno da shvatim da je iz lige autentičnih  igrača, a ja vrlo držim do takvih.

modni dizajner koji je masterirao filozofiju. i piše! poeziju, kratku prozu, eseje…

surfuje na vrlo  ružičastoj dasci.

kreira stvari nalik sebi. od najfinijih prirodnih materijala, naravno. i dobrog kolorita.

otac  i suprug.

voli životinje.

i prirodu.

i istinu, rekla bih.

ključne reči, dakle  za njega:

filozofija sa naglaskom na ničea, žižeka…



šeširi, šeširi, šeširi i po koja kapa. i to složeni, pa nošeni jedni na druge. tako cool.( iako baš ne volim tu reč, ali ovde mi dobro došla.)





boje, boje, boje

glava koja  misli kako želi ona, a ne druge. glave.

kažem, mnogo zanimljiv tip taj thaddeus o’neil…

sa stile like u

"Surfing is not a sport. It's incantation and magic flight."

"Whether it's Neitzche or Spinoza, when you read, you sit down with someone who took the time to organize their experience into language."

njegov stan / stylelikeu

i još knjiga i njega samog:




i opet stylelikeu

“I started out as an amateur and I want to remain one as long as possible. I love not knowing where I’m going,” he says. “I love folding a hat made of Japanese straw in a new way and seeing where that leads. Like surfing, you never know when you’ll end up in a new place.” (man of the world)

razgovor za not vogue  (maskirana osoba je, naravno, steve oklyn) o efektima korporacija i novca na modu i svet u celini.

njegov esej u hobo magazinu. (kao i not vogue i hobo magazne je, btw. pažnje vredno mesto)

My wrists are rivers my fingers are words… I was nineteen or twenty when the photographer Bruce Weber turned me onto Charles Bukowski with some pieces from Notes of a Dirty Old Man. It made an impression but it wasn’t until a few years later that I really found him. An Australian girlfriend and I were renting a place on Glasgow Avenue in Bondi from an Argentine with a small but very good library. Unfortunately it was all in Spanish. All but The Last Night of the Earth Poems by Charles Bukowski. In the original Black Sparrow imprint of John Martin. Despite reminding me of the away jersey of the Chicago Blackhawks it was a gorgeous looking book. I read it and read it and read it deep into the night, the cockroaches turning the kitchen counters a mass of trembling black, dissolving like an apparition when I flicked the lights on to fill my wine glass.

Living too long takes more than time… Ah yes, the friendly wine. Writing with Bukowski was a strictly Dionysian affair. Like Aeschylus before him, Bukowski was an innovator of contemporary tragedy. I was there in his chorus swaying madly. You are the sacrifice of this ritual, he always reminded you, fingering words into little origamic spasms of our profoundly pathological world. The task of the poet is to become other, to find a new way to live.

The sun slants in like a golden sword as the odds grow shorter… Unlike say T.S. Eliot and those of his ilk whose poetry by comparison is an elaborate game performed for the literati, Bukowski is a poet of the vernacular and anti-pastoralist par excellence. Basho, a 17th century Japanese poet and influence of Bukowski also wrote for the masses in everyday language. “As I look back over the many years of my frivolous life, I remember at one time I coveted an official post with a tenure of land and at another time I was anxious to confine myself within the walls of a monastery. Yet I kept aimlessly wandering on like a cloud in the wind… it is because I believe there is no place in this world that is not an unreal dwelling.” Bondi became my Austral Asian city of lost angels and the Last Night poems my first apprenticeship to the way. I had no papers and picked an old 10-speed bicycle with maybe three working gears from the garbage that I used to get to sites all over suburban Sydney where I worked a series of laboring jobs alongside Czechs and Irish and English and Greeks and Canadians. Whatever money was left after the rent I spent on booze and books and houseplants.

In the shadows of the rose… After the girlfriend I lived on the couch and then the attic when it became vacant of a fifty-something fille de joie who rented rooms to strapping young men for fifty bucks a week or something. The closest I ever got to living in a flophouse, an arrangement highly recommended by Bukowski. Looking back, it was all a grand role-play, a terrific mask that I wore for the dance of the word. And it was all that mattered. The word, as Hannah Arendt says, “reveals the meaning of what otherwise would remain an unbearable sequence of sheer happenings.” Bukowski instilled in me the heroic ambition to no ambition but the escape from the unbearable sequence of sheer happenings. Just you and the word. Oedipus in the lap of the Sphinx. You must open your wrists for it everyday.

[Text by Thaddeus O’Neil]

i njegova baš dobra  fotografija u hobo magazinu:

Maui / Photo by Thaddeus O’Neil

a na njegovom sajtu:

piše o njemu sledeće:


Inspired by the hobos of the sea and their poetry, Thaddeus O’Neil is American surfer chic. Premium playwear with aloha. Sincere, offbeat, and playful, the debut SS 2014 collection features brightly contrasting color-printed trunks and relaxed separates, and limited edition hand-dyed indigo kimono pieces for après-surf. Made by hand in New York City and Japan, each garment is of the highest quality construction and content using only the finest silk, linen, cotton, and pure Japanese indigo.

The Thaddeus O’Neil man understands through feeling and comes to know that true luxury is the touch of nature and real refinement born of our creative movement within it.

Keep it moving.

A Provisional Biographical Interlude

Thaddeus O’Neil did his Masters in philosophy and spent the next several years traveling, surfing, photographing, writing, drawing. Wherever he arrived – Africa, South America, Indonesia – he would be captivated by the local people, their way of being, and their dress. He settled in Australia for a spell. They call it lucky country and he found this to be true. He tripped over his love and delight there, the model Pania Rose. They live together in New York’s Lower East Side with their son, Cas. They have two dogs, Hemingway and Shirley, and a cat called Teddy Boy. He is a lifelong surfer of the beaches of Fire Island New York and surrounds, and his eponymous menswear line is inspired by this special relationship. His poems, short stories, and photographs have appeared in L’Uomo Vogue, Pop Magazine, Vogue Hommes International, Details, Cent, Hobo Magazine, and Riot of Perfume, among others. In addition to launching his debut SS 2014 menswear collection, he is presently at work on a mixed-media performance piece about genderless ghosts, shanties, ritual, and the movement of language and bodies in the sea.

The End



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